


Subjugator

by jury



Category: Original Work
Genre: Biting, Blow Jobs, Bruises, Caning, Consent Issues, Desperation, Dubiously Consensual Blow Jobs, Extremely Dubious Consent, Incest, M/M, Manipulation, Manipulative Masochism, Masturbation, Overstimulation, Plot, Sibling Incest, Violence, Wet & Messy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-26
Updated: 2018-12-26
Packaged: 2019-09-17 12:33:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,409
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16974678
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jury/pseuds/jury
Summary: After his perfect older brother betrays Aloyse and leaves him to spend the summer on his own, Aloyse seethes in resentment and desire, training to exact his revenge when his brother returns.





	Subjugator

**Author's Note:**

  * For [villaindecay](https://archiveofourown.org/users/villaindecay/gifts).



> I couldn't have done this without my incredible beta, El.

It was barely the first day of spring when Aloyse woke to the sound of clashing swords in the training yard below his window. The sun was bright enough that it would have woken him before long anyway, and although there was still a chill on the stone when he stepped out from between his bedclothes, he didn't hesitate to go to the window and look down upon Prothade and whoever he was trouncing. And he was trouncing; Aloyse could tell just from the tops of their heads, Prothade with more mud adorning him than was proper for a crown prince, beating his opponent back with both strength and finesse. 

Aloyse was leaning half out the window, the wind still blessing his cheeks with a chill, slipping under the wide neck of his shirt. Prothade had promised Aloyse he could join the training after his final nameday, if he had learned to wake up early enough for it.

Prothade's chevaliers were neatly lined up against the fence, each equally mud-spattered. Aloyse hurried through dressing, still pulling on his shoes as he hopped out of his chambers. It didn't take long to make his way down to the grounds, pushing open the door and striding up to the fence with the others, allowing himself a brief moment to imagine being shoulder to shoulders with the chevaliers, one of Prothade's sworn protectors. Not that Prothade needed protection. He was currently beating Ivin back into the corner of the room with such ferocity that Ivin had forgotten how to be a knight and was swinging his sword and shield around wildly in the hopes of scoring a hit. It turned out to be a well thought-out strategy, because before Prothade forced his surrender, Ivin managed to land a blow with the edge of his shield against Prothade's ribs, and the onlookers winced in sympathy.

But Prothade shrugged off the blow, despite the fact that even Ivin seemed concerned. He accepted his surrender and came over to the fence where Aloyse was, but didn't pay him any heed. The other chevaliers clapped him on the shoulders and swapped barbs. Aloyse rested his chin against the top of the fence and waited. Both Prothade and Ivin were shining with sweat and breathing hard; Prothade looked how he always did in his element, flushed with happiness and exertion, his skin still without its golden glow of summer, tawny hair damp with sweat, curling gently at the nape of his neck when he bent to hear a question. Aloyse found he had to look away to avoid being struck with glare, but when he looked up, Prothade was looking at him with a fond, distant look in his eye.

"Up early?" he said, and Aloyse dipped his gaze away, travelling along the muddy blade of Prothade’s sword instead. Somehow, even though Prothade was his blood, Aloyse felt distant from him, like putting his hand too close to the fire would get him chided. He was blushing, too, from being addressed in front of everyone like a child, and straightened up, tried to act like his true height got the top of his head any higher than Prothade's shoulder.

"It's my nameday soon," Aloys said. "You said I could practice with the chevaliers once I was named."

"I did," Prothade said. "Are you sure you wouldn't rather be in the tower with the priest, though?"

"That's for winter," Aloyse said. He was almost of age, but it didn't feel like Prothade would ever see him as a man — an equal. Their ages were too removed, he thought, it having been six years for their mother in between children. Even now, when he was almost eighteen, from Prothade's height he thought he probably looked as small as a child. "You said we could train in the summer."

Prothade nodded. Aloyse couldn't help his heart from leaping, feeling like the taste of spring on the wind would be as sweet as he had hoped. 

The leap of his heart was interrupted by a scoff from the other end of the fence that made him lean back, although he hardly had to to know who it was: Manet, whose skill with a blade was only matched by his arrogance. "Don't make us play nurse to the little prince, Prothade," he said. "The first time he gets slapped in training he'll run back there for your mother." Prothade laughed, just a throwaway chuckle, but it felt like someone had shoved a handful of snow down the back of Aloyse's shirt. Manet cast a contemptuous glance back towards Aloyse, like he was a weed pushing out of the ground. 

"Come now, Manet," Prothade said, but he didn't turn back to Aloyse to soothe or defend him, just loped to where Manet was reclining against the fence and soon bent his head towards him, deep in a conversation Aloyse couldn't hear or follow, no matter how he bent his head. He ducked his head and blinked hard, thinking — wishing he could knock Manet's feet from under him and step on his face. 

Clouds were gathering, now, and although the sun was growing in strength, it was still watery and not enough to hold off the sleet. The other chevaliers were moving towards the armory, and Prothade followed without a parting word or glance towards Aloyse, an arm slung over Manet's shoulders. He didn't hear or, if he did, didn't turn when Aloyse called his name, forcing him to linger by the edge of the training field to await their return, knowing he would just be scolded for being underfoot if he followed. 

They returned, then, without Prothade. Aloyse straightened up the field while he waited, and fought the urge to just scatter everything on the ground and blame the others when Prothade returned. Manet passed him last, and said nothing, only tutted before his long stride took him back into the castle. Only Ivin lingered as he emerged, digging in the pockets of his breeches, eyes darting between Aloyse and the castle proper. "Take this to the prince, would you," he said, finally retrieving a small pot of balm from his pocket. "That blow he took to the ribs isn't going to be pretty."

"He looked fine," Aloyse said, and Ivin arched an eyebrow. 

"I can land a good blow, little prince," he said, and ruffled Aloyse's hair with a good-natured hand. "Don't tell him I'm shirking, now," he said, and headed towards the castle's kitchen door at a half-trot. 

Aloyse scowled, and turned towards the armory, where most of the other chevaliers were leaving and heading towards the stables. Prothade's tawny head wasn't among them, so he gripped the balm in one hand and pushed himself towards the armory, the mud dragging at his feet. There was no jesting or chatter ringing out of the armory door, so he found his way unobstructed by the knights. 

None of them took him seriously, he knew. Prothade had inherited their father's looks and colouring, build broad across the chest and thigh, and dark hair that shone in the sun, whereas Aloyse was delicate like their mother, small in stature, with strong brows and fine features. Even if he could beat Ivin in a bout, none of the others would turn their heads to watch it. He swallowed down the bitterness of the thought and relaxed his fingers around the hard lump of the balm. 

It was dim and gloomy in the armory now, the fine glass panels receiving barely any light from the sky, and the lamps unlit. Prothade was sitting alone, back to Aloyse, his shield and sword carelessly scattered on the ground. His shirt was off, too, and the sight of the muscles in his back made Aloyse feel sour inside, knowing his own back looked nothing alike. His father had given up waiting for him to grow into a man, and all that remained now was his nameday before it was forced to be truth. 

Ivin had been right, and despite the rankling his bravado had produced in him, Aloyse had to admit the red mark on Prothade's side looked painful, the edge of the shield catching him across two or three ribs, digging in with the flat of the blow behind it, so it was a deep purple-red arching across pallid winter skin. Prothade was examining it, his head bent away from Aloyse, fingers tracing across the mark, and Aloyse couldn't help approaching, head cocked. He wanted to see the mark, although he couldn't explain why. It made him feel liquid inside, the warmth of approaching Prothade burning in his chest. 

Prothade pressed his fingers, hard, into the bruise and Aloyse was close enough to hear the hiss of his breath escaping as he did so. Close enough to see the colour change against the edges of Prothade's fingers as he pressed harder, pushing the colour from deep to pale. 

Closer still. Aloyse couldn't stop his feet, drawn to the bruise itself — not Prothade, but the bruise. Then he was close enough to feel the heat of Prothade's body radiating from his skin, smell the sweat of his exertion. Although each of his steps made a slight noise on the stone floor, Prothade didn't turn, his gaze remaining fixed forward. 

Aloyse's breath caught in his throat, hitching out a little noise. Was he meant to say something — was he meant to say __is that all right?__ Or something else, some words that would come naturally to the chevalier Prothade no doubt thought he was. Instead, he reached out and touched the centre of the bruise, where it spanned widest like a wing spread out across Prothade's flesh, his fingers tracing the middle so lightly that Prothade shivered, goosebumps rippling across his flesh. Aloyse's fingers looked slim and dainty next to Prothade's calloused hands, still digging into the bruise. Something about how the colour changed when he pressed — it looked like a radiant sunset, dying across the sky. Aloyse couldn't stop himself — he pressed hard, putting all his weight behind his hand, and Prothade leaned back into it, until just the tips of Aloyse’s fingernails were pressing half-moons into his skin. 

Prothade gasped, a noise more breathy than Aloyse had ever heard from him. Aloyse snatched his hand away, taking only a second's notice of the way the bruise faded back to deep purple, leaving only the scratch of his fingernail marks to show that anything had happened.

Prothade began to raise his head, and Aloyse caught his breath, pulling away from Prothade. He couldn't escape from Prothade's gaze, and it felt like the heat of Prothade’s body jumped between them, lodging in his heart. Aloyse put the jar of balm down on the bench with a click that seemed to echo for longer than was possible. He couldn't look up, or meet Prothade's gaze again. He turned and ran out of the armory, his shoes slapping on the stone, ears pricked to see if Prothade spoke or shouted, but no sound followed his footsteps. 

Aloyse's breath rushed out of him in a wave as he closed the door behind him. The sun felt too hot against his bare arms, his body feeling two sizes too big as he stumbled back towards the castle proper, slipping inside and leaning against the cool wall. His hands felt like they retained Prothade's warmth, pulsing against his palms. He pressed them against the stone wall as hard as he could. Being close to Prothade had always felt a little like that — darting his hand through a candle flame quick enough not to get burnt, but now it was like the flame was under his skin, burning away at his flesh. 

Voices — chevaliers returning to the training yard. Aloyse swallowed, throat dry, and retreated up to his room at the top of the tower. He could only linger there for minutes before the clash of steel mixed with voices began again, assaulting his ears. 

There was nothing to do but flee from them, and he ascended to the library at the top of the tower, where the winter shutters were jammed shut and preventing the sun from entering, and it was cold enough that he felt his breath should still make a cloud in the air. It felt cold enough to quell the heat in his chest, and he waited out the rest of the day there before sneaking back to his room after midnight, when the last candle had guttered to death in its own wax.

*

The sun on his face woke him exactly as he had fallen asleep, splayed over the covers of his bed, clothes still on. Aloyse's head felt foggy, but the image of Prothade's skin was still there, bright behind his eyes. Aloyse shook his head, dragging it up. 

A memory surfaced, unbidden, Prothade scuffing his hand over the top of Aloyse's hair and saying __they'd call you little bird instead of little prince if you ever talked__ , the corners of his eyes crinkling like he was looking into the sun. Aloyse bit his tongue. It wasn't — it just showed how Prothade thought of him as a child, not fit to lift a sword. How was he meant to face Prothade over the table now, let alone face him over a sword for his training? 

There was nothing for it but to go outside and pretend nothing had happened, even though his fingers still glowed with heat, and his face burned at the thought of meeting Prothade's eyes. 

Aloyse dressed as fast as he could manage, which was slowly, but when he opened the door, Ivin was leaning against the wall, dressed in travelling clothes, eyes mostly closed. Most of the chevaliers paid Aloyse no heed apart from teasing him or indulging Prothade by having him fetch and carry things, so seeing Ivin there sparked a rich flood of anxiety in his stomach. Ivin jolted awake when the door slipped from Aloyse's grip, banging against the wall next to him. Aloyse tried to draw himself up, stand straight, but Ivin still towered over him, unconsciously intimidating him.

"They've gone," he said.

Aloyse raised his head, but Ivin looked back with no emotion in his eyes.

"I don't understand," Aloyse said. "Why didn't anyone wake me?" 

Ivin shifted from foot to foot, eyes darting around while he searched for words.

"It's an important year for Prothade," he began, "his training, his lessons in stateship, courtships — " he cut himself off and frowned. Aloyse's heart fluttered in his chest. None of this was ringing true. 

"We can still catch them," Aloyse said, fingers beating a nervous drum on his leg. "It's not that late."

"They left last night," Ivin said. "A day ahead now. Less if you'd woken earlier."

"I can still catch up," Aloyse said, and then bit his tongue until he tasted blood. His words butted up against Ivin's impassive face. 

"No," Ivin said. "But I have to." He stepped towards Aloyse, and just that was enough to push him back into his room, the sound of the latch scraping against wood with dull finaility. "Someone will come let you out later," he said, and then all that was left was the sound of his footsteps retreating down the hall. 

Aloyse stood in front of the door for a few minutes, thoughts swirling in a tangled whirl. He bunched his hands into fists, the grip feeling weak against his own flesh. Prothade had said something to Ivin. Aloyse didn't know what, but he could hear Prothade's voice echoing in the back of his head. __The little prince is too annoying. The little prince just gets in the way.__

Aloyse hit the door, his fist landing with a satisfying thump before the dull pain washed back and up his arm, reverberating inside his flesh. He closed his eyes and tried to push it down, but it was too strong, the air thrumming with his pain. Aloyse shook his hand out and bit down on his tongue again, frowning so deeply it felt like the lines of it would be etched into his face. Prothade had lied to him about everything. Prothade had lied to him about being a chevalier, about training him, and left him at the winter palace to rot. 

There was nothing to do but wait to be let out. He saw Ivin depart across the courtyard, urging his horse on through the muck and snowmelt. Possibilities raced through his mind. Prothade was hiding in the corridor, and would jump out and say it was all a joke. Prothade was just testing his resolve, and expected him to catch up to Ivin and make his own way. It didn't matter. The heat of pain throbbing in his hand was just an echo of the way Prothade's skin had burned against him, just from that one simple touch. 

True to Ivin's word, eventually one of the servants came and unlocked the door, bringing him a tray of food. Although his stomach rumbled at the smell of it, he felt no desire to eat, and sat listlessly at the table in his room, watching the sun move across the wall until it was dark outside, the candle telling time by the wall long since burnt out. 

It was quiet outside his room, when he ventured down and out into the training field, and the still-bitter night wind cut through his thin tunic, but soon he could barely feel the cold at all. The gate was closed, the wood dark even in night against the grey stone, but there was a few ways to get outside, a niche carved out in the stone just enough for someone skinny to fit through. Prothade had shown him this as children, and finding his way through it alone felt wrong, like he'd turned a corner and just lost sight of Prothade. Aloyse swallowed and pushed the thought down. 

Outside, the winding road stretched away into the distance, still churned up with the marks of hooves. He skirted these and made his way down through the bower of skeletal trees, just starting to grow leaves and buds, the ground still hard and packed under his feet. 

Further down was the lake where they had spend most of the winter skating, Prothade faster and more graceful than anyone else, while the chevaliers raced and bullied each other around and around. Even though the last time had been only a few short weeks ago, he felt like it had been months, or maybe years. Instead of the bright, white surface, it was a glittering black gulf in the ground now, reflecting stars and the moon in its unbroken surface. He stood at the edge and let the wind buffet him, the reeds dragging softly across his skin, the water lapping at the soles of his shoes. The trees around the edge of the lake were dragging their leaves in the water, crocuses and agapanthus struggling their way out of black earth. His mouth was dry and he was digging his fingernails into the palms of his hand, the pain suddenly returning with a wash over him. 

It would have been easier if Prothade had just driven his sword through Aloyse's chest; at least then the wound would be real and visible, the blood dark and silty like the water here, and he could look down and see something, rather than the ragged tear that was formless and unreal. It hurt as much as a blade wound, he thought, gazing up into the sky, the pain welling up and catching in his throat. He swallowed around it and tilted his head up, imagining if Prothade was in front of him. There was nothing to say — it felt like the only way to talk to him would be with his fists. 

The water was beginning to seep into his boots, washing against already-frozen toes. Tears pricked at his eyes, but he blinked them away, biting savagely at his lips. There wasn't enough strength in his body or knowledge in his mind to strike down his brother, who had been training for as long as Aloyse could remember. He was smaller, clumsier, less adept. He scraped his teeth over his bottom lip, catching at the chapped skin there, and tried to breathe past the choke point in his throat. 

He did have one advantage: Prothade would never see him coming. 

The walk back up through the bower was quick, the beat of his heart urging him home. All his senses felt heightened, every gust of wind rattling the branches or every flicker of light from the castle catching his attention. Soft-winged birds made their way over his head, invisible in the dark with just the beat of their wings to let him know they were near. It had been a very long time since he had been totally alone, neither following someone nor attended by another, and the feeling was alien as he walked back into his room, stripping off his shirt and shoes and falling into bed, the wind still whispering over his skin. 

*

He woke at dawn, the first blush of the sun on his cheek enough to rouse him from sleep. His heart was pounding, fingers clenched, but he had no memory of any dream. The tray from last night was still on the bench and he ate quickly, the dark pulse of night-ideas still centred in his chest. 

There was a track around the lake that Prothade made the chevaliers run on when they arrived in autumn, leading the pack and gently jibing at those who trailed behind. Aloyse had tried to join them, but had been rebuffed when he was too slow. The day was clear and crisp, but the breeze carried the scent of flowers on it, as if someone wearing perfume was ahead of him, the bright green of stalks and grass thrusting through the dirt visible in the light. The lake was a clear blue in the day, reflecting the sky, and as he began to jog around the path, he imagined Prothade in front of him, dressed in his livery, taunting him on. 

__Come on, Aloyse,__ he would say, and this Prothade, the one in his mind, had a cruel twist to his lips that the true one never had. __So slow? You'll never catch me.__ It urged him on until his loping jog became a sprint, each step firm and purposeful, achieving a rhythm he never had before. Still, the phantom mocked and jeered him but it became easier and easier until the words slipped past his ears and a part of the weight on his back began to disappear. __I can beat you__ , he thought, and the thought became part of the rhythm of his feet on the ground. __I can win__ , repeated over and over. 

By the time he had to stop, his body hot and exhausted, doubled over and trying to suck air into his lungs, there was a rich adrenaline following it, a violent euphoria at the idea of catching up with the phantom Prothade and knocking that smile right off his face.

Aloyse glanced down at his fist, mottled dark with bruising across the knuckle, the same colour as Prothade's ribs. He should have been the one to put that mark across Prothade's body. He wouldn't need a shield to do it, like Ivin, either. He'd do it with his bare hands, grapple against the well-formed flesh of Prothade's body until he was down on the ground in the mud, and Aloyse would be the one standing high, not cowardly enough to send someone else to do his bidding. The image struck him with a powerful surge of satisfaction, and he had to close his eyes and bite down on his finger to banish it. It wasn't real, but it could be. 

*

The monk of the seven-fingered god was waiting for him in the courtyard on his return, Aloyse's school books tucked under his arm. Aloyse had never been late to lessons before, and certainly never turned up with his tunic drenched in sweat, hair damp from running it under the pump in the training yard, wishing there was still a bit of snowmelt to tuck under his shirt. Brother Briant had mastered the art of the disapproving arched eyebrow, but for once Aloyse felt it bounce off him in a way it never had before.

"Your mother has left instructions to continue your studies," he said, voice tinged by the provincial accent of the monastery where they took their vows. "She said she thought you ought take up studies of theology and ritual this summer."

"No," Aloyse said, and almost jumped to hear his own voice. It had barely been a day since he had last spoken, but there was a timbre to it he didn't recognise. 

"You'll be advisor to the king one day," Briant said, and although his tone was mild, Aloyse could sense his disapproval. "As the younger prince, there are expectations on your shoulders, too."

"I don't think Prothade wants my advice," Aloyse said. "Otherwise, why would I be here?" He left it at that, sweeping past Briant and up to his chambers, bathing as quickly as he could, the sheen of sweat drying sticky on his skin. Breakfast was on his table and he ate it quickly, suddenly ravenous, although bread and meat passed his lips without the taste registering. 

Then he went down to the training yard again, and entered the armory. The training swords were still lined neatly up in their rack, the light hitting them just at the right angle to make them sparkle and shine, their reflections dancing against the far wall. He ignored his own training sword, the smallest and lightest of them all, and picked up Prothade's, ignoring the burn in his muscles as he lifted it. Then he stood there, breath rushing in and out of his body as he fought the urge to strike it down on the flagstones again and again until it was dull and bent. 

No — mastery over it would shame Prothade more. How great a warrior could he be if even the little prince could handle his sword? Aloyse couldn't keep the smile off his face at the thought, ignoring the fact that it would be too wild and wan, tinged with a little madness. Betrayed, ignored, pushed aside -- he could succumb to it and become Prothade's dry advisor, staying up late to calculate figures and facts by the light of a dying candle, or he could forge his own path. 

Aloyse was about to leave when he caught sight of the bench that Prothade had occupied, the little pot of balm still sitting where he had put it. His approach was cautious, silent, like someone was watching. It wasn't exactly like he had left it; the lid was ajar, the smooth surface of the arnica balm inside marred with a single fingerprint. The scent was sickly sweet with herbs, making him gag a little. Prothade hadn't used the balm, and Aloyse wasn't sure what that meant. He pushed the lid back into place and shoved it deep into his pocket before picking up the sword and returning to the outside, ignoring the drag in his shoulders and arms as he tried to strike at the dummy.

 

This routine became his days and nights: rising with the sun to run around the lake, spending the rest of the day with Prothade's blade in the training yard. 

The first few weeks were agony, his hands stuck in a rictus around the blade when he finished, and he had to force himself to uncurl his fingers one by one. Slipping into the hot bath at the end of the day just seemed to make it worse, each ache and pain amplified and his muscles screaming as they unknotted. 

Sometimes he would strip and plunge into the lake instead, the water still frigid even as the plants began to flower and the sun began to beat down upon his back as he ran or trained, sweat flowing freely from his body. He would hold his breath and drift, naked at the bottom of the lake, his feet finding purchase in the silty soil until his lungs ached, bubbles rushing free from his mouth and nose until he was forced to surface, disturbing water lilies as he rushed up into the air. 

Spring flowers begin to invade his running path, crushing clover and new grass with each blow of his feet upon the ground. It had become easier with each day, then effortless, then he had to double and triple his routine just to feel fatigue at the end of the day. Soon he could lift Prothade's sword with ease, gouging deep notches into the training dummy, the shield no longer dragging his arm down but becoming a part of his body. 

He knew he could not truly train on his own, not without an opponent. Brother Briant or one of the servants wasn't likely to pick up a sword; they mostly left him alone now, except for the food left for him in his room and the occasional book on swordplay left outside his door. They were all in Thusyan, the language of their closest ally that both he and Prothade had been expected to master; Brother Briant seemed to be determined to make him learn __something.__

Even so, doing it alone was probably useless, until he realised it didn't matter. He had seen Prothade train a thousand times — a hundred thousand hours of resting his chin on the fence and watching them finish in the afternoon, eyelids fluttering shut from the warmth of the sun on his back, waiting for that moment that he had been so certain was coming, when Prothade would turn to him and beckon him into the ring with an outstretched hand, ready to begin his training. He wasn't training himself to fight Ivin or Manet, or a nameless bandit attacking the royal progression, or an enemy of the crown. It was all Prothade, only Prothade. After he fought him — defeated him — Aloyse might never pick up a sword again. 

His nameday came and went with barely a ceremony; it was only by changing of the days that he could tell time was passing at all. There was a letter from his mother that smelled like perfume, heavily sealed with wax and her crest, but he couldn't bring himself to open it; the parchment looked too clean against his hands. Nothing from Prothade, of course. Aloyse didn't know what he would have done if there had been — tear it up, bury it in the garden, throw it in the fire. 

Time began to race, only matched by the progress of his strength. His body had changed: all hard planes and muscle, no boyish cheeks or childishness. His face had changed too, now barely recognisable. He looked like the portrait of his father as a young knight that hung in the stateroom, dark, severe features that promised something uncompromising, although he still had his mother's long eyelashes and soft, slightly curled hair. It was a man that looked back at him now from the mirror or the still water of the lake before he dived in. 

*

Then the days began to grow shorter again, the leaves beginning to blush on the trees. Returning from training on a cool, overcast afternoon, the wind just beginning to have the promising bite of autumn, he overheard two servants gossiping just around the corner of his room. At first the words just slipped by him, but then two caught against his ears. __Prince__ and __wife__.

"They say every woman in the summer court is trying to marry him," one said to the other. 

"You mean he can pick and choose who to bed," the other replied.

"I said __marry__ ," the first one said, and then they drifted away, returning to their duties. 

Aloyse, for a moment, couldn't breathe, an old wound inside breaking open. Prothade had abandoned him to take up with others — no, that wasn't right. Of course a prince would take a wife to secure an alliance, to strengthen bonds between countries. That wasn't just expected, it was right. 

Thoughts were intruding on him, like being backed into a cage. So many people courting Prothade, his brother sitting on a throne as they revolved around him, approached him, __bedded__ him. He'd read enough novels stolen from the library, heard enough from the chevaliers to imagine a woman on top of Prothade, gasping as he pushed inside her, her hands darting over his chest, and in the image Aloyse carried in his mind, there was that bruise still, somehow, across his ribs like a tattoo, deep red and purple running together, still waiting for Aloyse's touch, to reach around his ribs and cover it with his whole hand just to feel it throb against his palm, feel the kick of Prothade's heart against his ribs, skim across the bump of his bones and down — Aloyse gasped, knees buckling, landing hard in front of his bed. He was hard in his trousers, fast enough to make him dizzy. It had been a long time since he'd felt anything, too caught up in his mind. 

Pressing the heel of his hand against his cock, he tried to will it down, but his hips hitched forward, and he tried to banish the thoughts from his mind, tried to push down the contrasting colour on Prothade's skin, the way he hadn't quite managed to meet Aloyse's eyes, guarded by his lashes. He leaned forward, letting his head rest on the bed, his mouth open as he gasped, just the light touch of his own hand through his trousers enough to send his heart thumping in his chest, driving his hips against his hand. If he didn't touch his own skin it was almost like it wasn't happening. He closed his eyes and pressed harder, moving faster, a wretched groan pushing itself out of his mouth. All he could see was the back of Prothade's neck, his body twisting underneath Aloyse, trying to break out of his grip as Aloyse pushed him down again, and he was coming, hard enough that it felt like it was being wrenched from his body, doubled over and gasping, and the pleasure was so intense and overwhelming that it came like a second rush over his body, tingling along his scalp. His heart was going so fast it felt like it might launch out of his chest, his breath wet and ragged. 

Aloyse moved his hand away, trying not to look at the dampness spreading in its wake. The choking lump in his throat was back, threatening this time to cease his breath. Shame and guilt washed over him in equal measure as he rested back on his haunches. It had never happened before. It never would again. It was just — he was angry, that was all. It had been about the imaginary girl and he'd just gotten distracted. 

He took his bath quickly, pausing only to scrub himself hard enough to raise his skin hot and red, falling into bed because he didn't know quite what else to do with himself, lying there with thoughts swirling in his head, an unceasing torrent while the stars moved behind the clouds outside. Instead of getting up, going down to the lake, standing, pacing, anything, he chose to lie there until he was exhausted, traitorous hands wanting to wander back to his cock again as he remembered the smell of Prothade's body, just the simple way he moved, muscle under skin, and had to bite his tongue until he tasted blood just to banish the thoughts from his mind.

*

By mid-autumn he had given up hope that anyone would ever return to the winter palace. They would stay in the summer palace without him, near the cold, steel-gray ocean while sleet drenched the court. 

The winter palace was growing more beautiful by the day, delicate webs of lace frost hanging from the windows, Aloyse's breath hanging in a still cloud when he woke every morning at dawn, steam rising from his skin as he trained. Then, as the nights began to chill and deepen, he awoke, late, to the echo of some distant sound — hoofbeats. 

For a long while he thought he was dreaming, and unable to break out of the dream, blinking blindly at the ceiling above. They came closer, a pair in an off-kilter rhythm, but it wasn't until they were at the gate that he realised they were real at all. Aloyse jerked himself up into sitting. It was only a few steps to the window, but he couldn't make himself take them. Distant voices, the clink of tack and then someone laughing, the deep bell toll of it striking directly at his body. Prothade. 

Then he did go to the window. It was like he was unable to prevent himself from doing it, even though he wanted to be cold, wanted to be distant. It couldn't be true, but it was. Prothade was down in the courtyard below, almost invisible in the dark but for Aloyse's keen eye and the torch light reflecting off his pauldrons. Not that it mattered. Even if he couldn't see him, Aloyse would have known he was there, feeling the link in his chest come to life, flaring with heat that stunned him. He could physically feel Prothade’s nearness, like he had been entombed and now everything was ablaze. 

Only a single chevalier was with him, and Aloyse had to squint to see who it was — Manet, who wore his long, dark hair in a tied-up braid and had always refused to cut it. Manet was still Aloyse's least favourite of them all, always with cutting words and a disapproving gleam in his otherwise-expressionless face.

Their horses had been led away and the two of them disappeared into the castle. Aloyse could hear the sound of their voices drifting near and then far again, before the hush of night fell over the palace again. He worked a finger into his mouth and bit it until it went numb, before catching a glimpse of himself in the mirror, crouched at the windowsill, worrying at his own hand like a hungry wolf. That was enough to send him back to bed, and although he normally ran hot at night, no centre of warmth manifested and he lay there, at first shivering and then in a half-sleep until morning. 

*

Daylight was bitter cold, the clouds low and oppressive. Aloyse didn't let it bother him; he barely noticed the change in weather. Training was the only thing that kept the swirl of his mind still, and he launched himself into it with more fervour than was necessary, chopping at the dummy almost before the sun had fully risen. So absorbed was he in his work that he didn't realise there were others in the field until voices rang out behind him.

"Who's that, then," Manet said, and Aloyse was half-turned around before his mind caught up with realisation of who would be there as well.

"Aloyse," Prothade said, and although there was a distinct note of surprise in his voice, it wasn't __enough__. Aloyse knew him well enough that he could tell Prothade's face was schooled into no reaction, but he wanted to break that pretense. 

"Prothade," he said, and his voice sounded scratchy and dull from disuse. "Welcome back."

"Thank you," Prothade said, but it was learned, court-politeness, like a physical reflex. Manet, half a step behind him with a fox fur draped around his shoulders, raised an eyebrow. 

Prothade looked as if not a day had passed. Why would he? Prothade had spent the summer by the sea, alternating between dipping in the ocean and being buffeted by the cool winds rolling off it, the summer palace full of light hangings and veils that moved with the slightest stir of air, entertaining girls with his stupid sword tricks or how long he could hold his breath, making them wait just a few seconds more until he emerged, water sheeting off his body. He still had the remnants of a summer tan gracing his face. Aloyse's grip tightened on the sword. 

"Won't you join me?" Aloyse said. Prothade didn't move forward, but his hand automatically went to rest on the pommel of his sword, as if he sensed a threat. 

"You've been busy, little prince," Manet said, cocking his hip. The note of confusion was in his voice, too, but he covered it better than Prothade had. "Do you accept all contenders?" 

"No," Prothade said, too fast, the word snapping out probably more harshly than he had intended. "Manet, let me speak to my brother."

Manet's brow furrowed, and he shot a glance between the two of them, but wasn't quick to disobey an order from the prince; after a moment, his face took on the expression of the most dispassionate boredom and he turned to go back in the palace. Aloyse didn't watch him leave. His gaze was focused on Prothade now, who was taking off his fur and draping it over the fence, slipping between the wood to enter the training yard. 

Aloyse's heart stuttered, and then the beat grew louder and louder until it was only blood that he could hear in his ears, watching the back of Prothade's neck as he bent his head to fix on his shield and unsheathe his sword. It was like a drum beating behind him, close enough that he could feel the vibrations in every part of his body, starting in his chest and rumbling down into his limbs. It was loud enough that he barely heard Prothade speak as he turned, managing only to focus on the movement of his lips.

"Aloyse," Prothade said, eyes dipping and then coming back up, meeting Aloyse's gaze. A little shock ran through him as Prothade did so, and Aloyse swallowed, feeling his throat click. "It's not — "

"No," Aloyse said, too loud, and Prothade's mouth snapped shut. It felt like war was brewing in his body, and soon there would be no stopping it. "I want to settle it this way."

"I don't — "

" _ _No__ ," Aloyse said, and raised his sword. Prothade raised his shield instinctively, sword falling into place, unable to deny a threat. "I want you to strike me." 

Nothing held him back but his own will, and even that wasn't strong enough with the desire to surge forward. Aloyse knew all of Prothade's weak spots, his conceits, the ways he moved that weren't perfect. He had spent so many years watching him that Aloyse knew his stance in his sleep, the way he moved, his preferred opening. 

Prothade inched forward, perhaps hoping Aloyse would back down, run out of the training field. He held his ground as Prothade took another tentative step, then carefully leaned forward and tapped his sword against Aloyse's shield.

Aloyse stood there, dumbfounded. He had trained for the way Prothade fought chevaliers, not the kind of blow you might see in a play for children. If Prothade couldn't see that Aloyse was his equal, then he would be forced to see. 

Prothade had retreated, and was looking at him with something in his eye — hope? Hope that he had fulfilled what Aloyse wanted, no doubt. It wasn't enough. 

Aloyse surged forward, surefooted. He knocked Prothade's shield away — weak grip — and butted his own into Prothade's chest. Aloyse __felt__ the breath exit Prothade's body as the impact slammed into him. Prothade flew backwards, landing on his ass, even sliding backwards a little on the frozen ground. He looked dazed by it, eyes half-closed, limbs lax.

"Get up," Aloyse said, and Prothade turned his head towards him impossibly slowly. " _ _Get up__ ," Aloyse said, and this time Prothade listened, coming to his feet quickly, shaking his head. He was clear-eyed again and angry, brow furrowed deep and mouth thin. No time to throw a jibe at him. Prothade was angry, and he was coming. 

Aloyse raised his shield. This time he felt the blow, his arm going numb and stinging as Prothade's sword crashed down. There was no time to think. There was no time to feel. There was only the fight, Prothade's blade a wicked, silver thing in the dim sunlight, Aloyse only just managing to meet his strikes. As they fought, he didn't find himself growing tired, but faster, stronger, as if each moment spent in battle was filling him with life, with purpose. This was what he had trained for. 

He was matching Prothade in skill, not allowing him to find gaps in his defence, driving him back until Prothade was almost at the fence; too fast to even allow him the moment's grace to recover his stance, Aloyse wound the blade of his sword around Prothade's and twisted it out of his hand. It felt deft. It looked good, the flash of it winging away into the mud, the harsh pant of Prothade's breath clouding against the air. 

Aloyse looked down at his sword — a break in his concentration. Prothade should have struck. He didn't move. It wasn't __enough__. Aloyse threw his own sword down and didn't watch it fall. Prothade still didn't move, frozen still. 

The moment hung in the air for just a second more, and then Aloyse formed a fist, cocked it back and hit Prothade in the face. The dull, fleshy thump wasn't satisfying either, but the way Prothade reeled back was, his eyes wide with shock. It wasn't enough, because there was a quirk to his lips, his mouth falling open in a way that looked like a __smile__. Aloyse hadn't won, then. He wouldn't be the victor until that smile was gone. 

He hit Prothade again. The flat thump of it stung his knuckles, bouncing off Prothade's cheekbone, a high, red mark raising almost instantly. But Prothade still didn't make any move to raise his hands, protect his face, slumping back against the fence. Aloyse could see blood in his mouth, staining his teeth. Prothade's eyes were wet with tears, but from impact, shock. Not from any remorse. There was a noise. A sound. Prothade was saying his name. 

"Don't," Aloyse said, but then Prothade did smile, his teeth stained with blood. It trickled down over his lip, a rivulet down his chin, spilling onto his neck. Aloyse wanted to touch it. Wanted to bite down its path. Taste it. 

"Is that all?" Prothade said, and he sounded like his tongue was thick in his mouth, but his eyebrows were raised, head tilted back, long, wet lashes sweeping across his cheek. "If that's the best you can do, it's a good thing I never took you on for training."

Aloyse's breath caught in his throat. "You lied to me."

Prothade shrugged, nonchalant, and reached up to touch the raw skin under his eye. He pressed it, then withdrew his fingers. Aloyse watched the colour of Prothade’s skin change with the pressure, and his breath caught in his throat. His body was thrumming again, and despite Prothade's apparent indifference, Aloyse could see from his pulse fluttering in his neck, the way his eyes darted between Aloyse's fist and his face, unable to stay still, that there was something more. "You're afraid of me," Aloyse said. 

"Am I?"

"I can see it," Aloyse said. "I frighten you."

"What about you could frighten me?"

Prothade reached over and unbuckled his shield, letting it fall to the dirt with a deliberate thump, then unbuttoned his jerkin, shouldering out of it quickly. Underneath, he was only wearing a thin shirt, not enough to ward off the cold. It was dark with sweat and spotted with blood. Unsure how to follow, Aloyse took off his own shield. He watched it fall. A mistake. 

Movement in the corner of his eye. Prothade, fast as a striking snake, hit him in the face. Aloyse stumbled back, pain exploding from his nose, the impact blunt and heavy across what felt like his whole face, the shock of it collecting in his neck. Prothade hit him in the stomach, the blow low and hard enough to almost knock the wind out of him. 

__No__ , Aloyse thought, digging his feet into the ground, raising his hands. They were bloody and bruised, dirt packed deep under his fingernails. Not the hands of a prince. __No__ , he thought again, and it burst out of him, ducking under Prothade's unsteady, sweeping blow to hit him in the side. Prothade gasped, wet with blood. Aloyse felt the droplets rain down over his hair and recoiled, Prothade taking the moment to sweep his feet out from under him.

He landed hard on his back, jarring his ribs, and Prothade followed him down until they were grappling in the dirt. Aloyse lost all sense of direction, seeing sky, then ground, then sky again, trying to hurt Prothade as best he could, digging his fingers into anything soft, jabbing his fists into bone, Prothade gasping and struggling under him. Finally, Aloyse wrested control, dragging Prothade's arm up behind his back and putting as much pressure on it as he dared. The sky had wrest itself open above them and lazy, fat flakes of snow landed softly in his hair, counterpoint to the ringing and dull throbbing in his nose.

"I'll break your fucking arm," Aloyse said, punch-drunk and sick with power, leaning down until his whole weight was on Prothade, pushing him into the dirt. His hair was dark with mud, and the upturned side of his face that Aloyse could see was rich with bruises, one wild eye swinging up at Aloyse. 

"Do it," Prothade said, half into the dirt, and Prothade was shivering with something — cold? Pain? Something wracking him, making him thrash against the ground. "You won't do it."

"You don't know me," Aloyse said, yanking at Prothade's arm, his fingers digging deep into the soft flesh of Prothade’s hand while Prothade gasped and twisted underneath him. He leaned down, his lips grazing Prothade's ear. Prothade went still beneath him — capitulation at last? Aloyse wanted to bite his ear, sink his teeth into it until they met on the other side, just to leave a mark that Prothade couldn't forget, so that every time he ran his fingers there, he would have to remember that Aloyse had done that to him — had __given__ that to him. Prothade was still now, only puffing out harsh breaths, like a wounded animal waiting to be struck down. That's what he was. 

Aloyse's senses were returning, the chill on the back of his neck from the snow, the heat of Prothade's body under him, each whimper he made sounding flat and soft against the ground. The scent of his body — blood, sweat, a little sour fear. 

Aloyse pressed his nose into the back of Prothade's neck, ignoring the dull pain that flared at the pressure. The skin there felt soft and oversensitive, and he couldn't help pushing his chin up until his mouth — his lips — made contact, the hint of teeth behind, nipping at the nape of Prothade's neck where the bump of Prothade's spine rose up inside his skin. Prothade felt hot, hot enough to melt any snow that landed on him, and Aloyse flicked the tip of his tongue across his neck, just enough to feel the wet softness of his skin, the harsh hint of sweat while Prothade rocked and whimpered under him, not able to summon a harsh word or dismissive glance. Prothade’s arm was still trapped between their bodies, but he had stopped resisting. 

Aloyse's cock was hard, he realised with a harsh jolt of arousal slamming into him, and he was grinding down against Prothade's lower back, the pleasure a steady pulse inside him, and it felt so __right__ that he hadn't noticed it. There was no way Prothade couldn't feel what he was doing, feel the deliberate slide of his brother's cock against his back, especially through the thin shirt. If he moved his hips up a little, he could rub against Prothade's hand; a little further down, and he could press against his ass. He stilled, and Prothade made a little shocked noise underneath him, and made a movement that __felt__ like pushing up, arching his back and — no. 

Aloyse recoiled and threw himself back away from Prothade, upright so fast his vision prickled with it, head spinning. It wasn't right. It wasn't right. Prothade didn't move — didn't even straighten his arm to relieve the pressure on his shoulder. His hand looked red and bruised from Aloyse's grip, and his eyes looked dazed and glassy, his mouth open against the ground like he didn't even care. 

Aloyse backed away, afraid to turn around. This would be the image that haunted him. The fabric of his trousers was straining against his cock, uncomfortable with the movement. Images of what he could do if he just stepped forward again flashed through his mind. Pushing his cock into the warm, wet space of Prothade's mouth, between his legs, urging him to squeeze his thighs tight as Aloyse thrust against them, pulling his hair savagely until his head was bent back, exposing his neck to bite. Aloyse's knees buckled as he tried to turn, legs wobbly. 

There was nowhere to go but the training shed, and he hurried there as best he could, shoving the door shut behind him. The palace — he definitely couldn't go back to the palace, not like this. He was overheating, unlacing his jerkin with one hand while pressing his palm against his cock with the other. Not to pleasure himself. Not to — it was unthinkable. Unforgivable. He struggled out of his jerkin and tunic, flesh rolling with goosebumps as the cold air stung against it, leaning his back against the wall. This was almost the worst place to be. All he could think of was Prothade half-bent over on the bench, his ribs painted across with that beautiful bruise. Aloyse leaned his head back against the stone and tried not to think, tried to quell the blood pounding in his veins.

A sound — a soft scrape. The door was opening, pushed aside by Prothade, who was crawling inside. The sight struck Aloyse harder than any blow that had landed, cock growing impossibly harder — his __face__ , Prothade's face, swelling with dark bruises, dried blood cracking on his chin, caught between his teeth, across his lips. There was a bruise on the back of his neck — just a little scrape where Aloyse had nipped him, but it was that he couldn't look away from, a little mar in his perfect skin.

"I'm the __only__ one who knows you," Prothade said, voice ruined, and he crawled forward until he was between Aloyse's legs, pulled down his trousers and took his cock into his mouth, all of it at once. It was too much. Overwhelming. Aloyse cried out, his voice shattering against the far wall. The heat was incredible, the soft, wet pressure of Prothade's tongue against the head of his cock. Aloyse’s hips kicked up — he couldn't help it — and Prothade choked, Aloyse's cock bumping against the back of his throat. 

Aloyse gasped, then moaned as Prothade tried to take him deeper, tried to fit more of him down his throat. Aloyse's whole consciousness felt centered around the sensation, the inexpert slide of Prothade's tongue against his cock, the wetness, spit dripping, the tears welling at Prothade's eyes. But it wasn't enough for him just to try. He wound his hands in Prothade's hair and pulled, Prothade's eyes rolling back as he moaned around Aloyse's cock, the vibration of it bringing him right to the brink. 

Even that, still, wasn't enough. Prothade was trembling against him, his body pressed to Aloyse's thighs. Even with his hand tangled in Prothade’s hair, there wasn't enough contact between them. 

He reached down to touch Prothade's cheek and Prothade leaned down further, the head of Aloyse's cock sliding down the back of his throat. He could feel the effort Prothade was putting in, the strain of his jaw, the bruise under his eye. Aloyse pressed a finger against it and Prothade grunted, surprised, and choked again, a hard, wet sound. 

Aloyse pushed his hips up, pulled him deeper, the urge overwhelming. He rolled his hips, forcing his cock deeper until Prothade went still and just __let__ him, despite the fact his throat was fluttering with tension and the increasingly desperate sounds he was making around Aloyse's cock. It felt good — everything he did to Prothade would feel good. 

Aloyse’s body was resonating with pleasure, pooling in his hips but harmonising with the pain in his face and fists. Not from the pain itself, but from having the indelible mark of Prothade upon him, both given and received. He gasped, hitched his hips and he was coming, almost doubling over from the intensity of it, Prothade moaning long and low, Aloyse's thumb digging hard into the bruise on his cheekbone. It felt endless, come pouring into his brother's throat until Prothade choked and writhed for air, grappling with Aloyse's hands until he finally released him. 

Prothade shot backwards, gasping for air. His lips looked red and raw, plump with pressure. Come was dripping across his chin and his hair was sticking. He looked ruined, face burning up with bruises, mouth lax like he couldn't quite remember why he should close it. Aloyse tucked his cock back into his trousers; it was so sensitive it almost hurt, the jolt of his dry fingers. 

Prothade was half kneeling on the ground, barely propping himself, arms trembling. His eyes went from half-shut to open and wildly searching around, as if he was remembering what had happened — what he had done. Aloyse's gaze fell to the obvious erection in Prothade's trousers, barely covered by the hem of his shirt. Prothade's gaze dipped to where Aloyse was looking, but when he looked up, there was a flash of fear on his face.

"No," Prothade said. His voice was destroyed, cracked and rough beyond recognition. It made Aloyse's spent cock stir, as painful as it was. "No," Prothade said again, but he made no move. Aloyse reached forward and rested his hand on the back of his neck. Prothade flinched away, turned awkwardly, and tried to make his way towards the door, but it was like he didn't know how to stand, hands and knees on the slate. Aloyse seized his ankle and dragged him back, Prothade's hands scrabbling for purchase and finding none. Aloyse covered him with his body, pressing him down against the floor until Prothade stopped whimpering and jolting around. He was still trembling, but the weight of Aloyse on his back seemed to help, like calming a skittish horse. 

Aloyse licked his hand, slowly, letting his tongue trail across the new sword calluses on his palm until it was wet enough to be a slick slide, and then reached under, guiding Prothade's hips up until it looked like he was prostrating himself underneath his brother's body, guided to fit the shape of it, and then Aloyse pushed his hand down and into Prothade's trousers. Prothade wailed and tried to twist away — or get closer, both, at once, Aloyse's hand encircling his cock, thumb rubbing over the head. It was easy enough, from this angle, to reduce him to a baser instinct, until Prothade was rutting mindlessly forward, hips pushing and twisting into Aloyse's grip. He was wet, wet enough that Aloyse probably hadn't needed to lick his hand at all, with a steady stream of fluid that Aloyse wanted to taste, fitting his mouth around the head of Prothade’s cock and just licking it until Prothade begged him to stop. 

But Prothade didn't come. His cock was so hard it must be painful, and he was shuddering under Aloyse with each stroke, tears wet on his cheek. But it wasn't enough; something Aloyse was doing wasn't enough to make him come. It didn't stop Prothade from seeking release, but he was becoming desperate, an unending stream of noises from his mouth that were obscene. Someone was sure to hear, walk past and hear them fucking, and the thought made Aloyse's heart kick. To hear Prothade like this — he should walk Prothade out there with a hand on his neck, cock hard and pushing out of his trousers — no, naked with the marks and bruises bestowed upon him for everyone to see. 

The mark on his neck caught Aloyse's eye, and he leaned down to run his tongue over it again, then press his teeth against it. Somehow it still wasn't enough — Aloyse wanted to truly mark him, so he did, biting him hard on the back of the neck, forcing the sharp pressure of his teeth into Prothade's neck. Prothade shrieked like a fox in the night and came, a wet flood against Aloyse's hand, a rush of fluid that seemed never ending. Aloyse wanted more, rubbing at the head of Prothade's cock, coaxing a few more spurts of come from it until Prothade, somehow, came to, rousing himself to consciousness through sheer force of will, yanking Aloyse's hand out of his trousers and scrambling to his feet.

He looked like he had been attacked by a wild thing, battered and bruised from the waist up and ravaged from the waist down. Aloyse could smell sweat and come from here, Prothade's face red and blotchy, still stained with tears. He didn't speak, but his wide eyes met Aloyse's, but there was nothing in them; it was like looking into an empty mirror. His court schooling was taking over, even though it should have been impossible to draw himself up with dignity and grace, the way he looked - like he had been rolled in an alley and then fucked in lieu of robbed. 

Aloyse tried to stand, his legs weak and slipping underneath him. Prothade turned and opened the door, deliberately, closing it behind him with an click of finality. Aloyse refused to let that stand, and wrenched it open again, the cold air hitting him like a slap in the face, dulling everything down from an overwhelming roar. 

The snow had begun to pile up in earnest in the brief time they had been inside, covering the ground, the swords and shields abandoned in the training field becoming lumps under the thin layer. Prothade had his head down against the wind, heading towards the castle light that was spilling out onto the snow. His whole posture was the straight-backed rigidity of a prince, except when he paused to wipe at his mouth with his sleeve, just before entering the castle and exiting Aloyse's view without looking back. 

*

Darkness around and above him, something sharp and cold at his throat. Prothade was above him; Aloyse couldn't see him, but it was him in sense, in scent and shape, close enough to feel the heat of his body, feel the harsh gasps of his breath against the side of Aloyse's head.

"Get up," Prothade said, and his voice was jagged. The knife pricked at Aloyse's throat as he tried to move, but Prothade was unrelenting, pulling him forward with the other hand. Aloyse had to believe Prothade wouldn't hurt him, but he had never seen Prothade like this before, the dull moonlight illuminating something manic and unsettling in his eyes. Aloyse did not remember coming to his room, but that was where they were. Frigid air was gusting in through the window and there was a patina of snow on the stones below it. Prothade didn't allow him to look, retreating back with a flash of the knife and throwing furs and boots at him.

"What's happening?" Aloyse said, voice thick with sleep. He was trying to rouse himself, thrust wakefulness down into his uncooperative limbs as he shoved unclad feet into his boots, wrapped the furs around his body.

"You're coming with me," Prothade said, and his tone brooked no argument. There was no trace of the brother Aloyse had seen writhing and wordlessly begging on the floor earlier — even though it still seemed fresh, like only seconds had passed. But instead, this was the crown prince, with a straight back, his chin tilted up, every order demanding to be obeyed. He didn't specify where, just grabbed Aloyse by the back of the neck and shoved him down the hall, Aloyse tripping in hastily-laced boots. 

Outside was a whirlwind of snow and ice, sweeping through powdery snow, making sounds flat and quiet. Flakes scuffed along Aloyse's face like phantom touches, catching in his eyelashes and melting at his lips. The cloud was so low that it felt like he could reach up and touch it, the wind as sharp as Prothade's knife. Instead of pushing him towards the armoury, Prothade took a left to the stables, his stride too long, pulling Aloyse along at such a pace that he could hardly keep up. 

"Where?" Aloyse said, and Prothade rounded on him with such force that if it had been last winter, he would have flinched away, possibly gone running. Now, he felt solidly planted on the ground and met Prothade's gaze, remembering how it felt to stand against him in the training field. The memory of triumph suffused him, and it was Prothade who had to look away first. 

"Don't ask questions," Prothade said.

"I've learned not to bother," Aloyse said. Prothade's fingers tightened around Aloyse's upper arm, hard, and they stood there for a moment. Aloyse knew he could break that grip, bowl Prothade over into the snow, but he didn't want to. Prothade swallowed, Aloyse tracing the movement of his throat, the way the bruise on the back of his neck just peeked over the edge of his fox fur wrap. Prothade hitched it up higher and turned again, wrenching Aloyse along.

Inside the stables it was warm and dry, the horses watching them curiously as Prothade shepherded him to the far stalls, where two horses were already waiting. Prothade released him, and Aloyse spent some time trying to tie his boots properly, the laces already crusted with snow. When he was done, his horse was in front of him, butting its head against his chest. 

"Get on," Prothade said, cupping his hands as a foothold. In the light of the stable’s lanterns, Aloyse could finally see his face properly, his left eye swollen and bruised, face red and dark with the memory of Aloyse's fist. It knocked the air out of him just to look, and to know that others would see Prothade like this. How would he explain it? Manet had left him with Aloyse. What would he say? It hit Aloyse with a wrenching arousal, to think about Prothade stammering through an obvious lie about what had happened. Manet, surely, wouldn't believe him. 

"I said, get on," Prothade said, but Aloyse couldn't move. He was half-hard in his trousers, imagining how the rest of Prothade's body looked. It would be easy to knock him down into the straw and get over him — something went over his head, obscuring his vision. He flailed, but hit nothing, Prothade firmly knotting the blindfold behind his head. "Don't make me tie you to the horse," he said, voice harsh against Aloyse's ear. He elbowed backwards and clipped Prothade's hip, and the hitch in his breath sounded indistinguishable from when Aloyse had first grabbed his cock.

"Get on the fucking horse," Prothade said, and this time Aloyse turned to obey, not out of intimidation but a desire to see what would happen if he did, ignoring the hands Prothade bumped against his leg, but reaching up, blind, and swinging himself up onto the horse. Movement — Prothade was leading him out into the snow. For a brief second, he imagined Prothade slapping the horse's rump and sending Aloyse out into the snow, unseeing and half-dressed, to be found as a frozen lump in the spring. But he could hear Prothade near, even above the wind, clucking to his own horse, sending them both out into the whirl. How anyone could navigate in the wind and ice was a mystery to Aloyse; he knew his horse was tied to Prothade's by the way they moved together, occasionally feeling himself be redirected. Then they were somewhere in the forest; he was occasionally brushed by the frozen boughs of trees, their needles sweeping over his hands, thighs, face, until his whole body was tingling. 

Prothade didn't speak for a long time, until Aloyse heard him say __whoa__ to the horse, who shook its head impatiently, tack jingling. Then the soft whump of feet hitting the snow, coming back around to Aloyse. A hand touched his thigh before quickly retreating, and Aloyse dismounted too, a dizzying second of falling into nothingness replaced by sinking into deep snow. He pulled off the blindfold without waiting for leeway, squinting into the dim moonlight. Prothade had brought him to the chevalier's hunting lodge, a small building tucked away into the forest, made of dark pine with bows and arrows haphazardly scattered across the entrance, stuck into the snow and lodged into nearby trees. That was evidence that they had been there without Prothade, who never would have allowed the chevaliers to leave it so unkempt. Even now, with his head turned away, Aloyse could sense his disapproval. Although whether that was with the state of the hunting lodge or him, he couldn't quite tell. If Prothade should have been disapproving of anyone, it should be himself, Aloyse thought. As if sensing that, Prothade unhooked a bag from his saddle and threw it at Aloyse, jerking with his head to indicate to take it inside. He did so. 

Inside it was warm and dry, a fire banked to coals in the hearth. Either someone else was here — Aloyse took a cursory glance around for Manet — or Prothade had ridden here and back already in the dark. Evidence suggested the latter. It was a simple, cozy room, with a table and chairs pulled up to the hearth, beds nearby, windows pressed into the wood to watch for deer, the room capped off with a screened area for bathing and undressing.

Prothade pushed the door open with his hip and all but stumbled inside, dropping a thin pine stick near the entrance. Aloyse stepped forward to help him, but Prothade flinched back. He looked like he hadn't slept in a month, in addition to the bruises. He was pale, bottom lip red like he had been chewing on it. The knife was in his hand again, a little golden thing that had once been shiny, but now tarnished like a worry stone. He was worrying at it now, turning it around and around in his hand ceaselessly. Aloyse waited for him to speak, something angry, condemning him, or an attack, but Prothade just stood there, gazing at the floor. Then he put the knife down on the table, slowly, like he was about to bolt. Then he took another length of black cloth and tied it over his own eyes. 

Aloyse swallowed. His body was beginning to return to warmth; not from the fire, but from watching Prothade move with such deliberate forethought. __He planned this,__ he thought. __He thought about this__.

Then his brother began to take off his clothes, starting with the furs, dropped carelessly, and pulling his tunic up over his head. Prothade's torso was mottled with bruises, layer over layer, ranging from old and faded, yellow, then purple over his stomach, where Aloyse had hit him, the faint shape of the edge of his shield over his chest and nipples, which were peaked with cold, gooseflesh running over his skin. The freshest mark was on his hip, a red blotch from the sharp jab of Aloyse's elbow, and he watched Prothade run his thumb over it even without looking, like his hands were seeking out the pain. His body was thickly muscled from training, a few old scars tracing across his skin. The veins on his arms attracted Aloyse's attention, standing out from his skin. Aloyse's mouth was wet, but he waited with a patience he didn't feel, unable to stop palming his cock through his trousers just for the lie of relief. 

Then Prothade was kicking off his boots and pulling his own trousers off, his cock soft against his muscled thighs - and, Aloyse realised with a sick jolt, smaller than his own, which almost buckled his knees. Prothade must know — __must have known__ , having it in his mouth, feeling it against his back, his ass, thinking about how big it was, how much bigger it was, humiliated by it. Aloyse's breath caught in his throat as his gaze travelled down, ending at Prothade's oddly delicate feet, in counterpart to the rest of his body. 

"You have to do it," Prothade said, and there was a hysterical note in his voice. "Just once. I'll only need it once."

"What?" Aloyse said, thoughts halted by confusion. Time had passed so quickly since Prothade had returned, unlike the slow, hot summer. For the first moment since Ivin had shut the door on him, he felt truly lost, truly misdirected. 

"I said you have to do it," Prothade said, and then he was groping for the knife on the table, clipping it with his thumb and sending it spinning before seizing on it properly. "You have to do it."

"I don't understand," Aloyse said. Prothade was trying to will him to understand; he could hear it in the crack of his voice, but it was flowing past him. He felt like he was back at the training yard fence, trying to follow a conversation that made no sense. 

"I'll tell mother," Prothade said, angling the knife towards Aloyse's voice. "I'll tell them all what you did to me."

Aloyse swallowed, the sick feeling dredging up in his throat. The knife caught his eye again, and he recognised it all at once. "That's mine," he said.

"What?"

"That's my knife," he said. "That's the knife grandfather gave me."

"It's not," Prothade said.

"I thought I lost it," Aloyse said, frowning. "A long time ago. You took it."

"No," Prothade said. Then he turned away, like he was expecting something. Like he expected Aloyse to come over and hit him, when he couldn't even see Prothade's eyes. When Aloyse didn't move, Prothade turned his head over his shoulder, raising his chin. "Haven't you been wondering why I left you behind?"

Aloyse swallowed. The drum at the back of his heart was kicking into rhythm again, confusion giving way to the warring emotions caught at the back of his chest. The armory — it hadn't been enough. Prothade hadn't looked him in the eye — hadn't been __honest__ with him. It bubbled at the back of his throat. 

"You're weak," Prothade said. "You'd never catch up to the rest of the chevaliers. Mother coddled you too much, because you're too much like her. You'd probably cry the first time you picked up a sword."

"I beat you," Aloyse said. 

"Did you?" Prothade said. "Or did I just let you win?"

Aloyse was seized by two wild, overwhelming urges and let them take him forward, lunging at Prothade's naked back. Prothade was too tall. Aloyse shoved his knee into the back of Prothade's knee, and he went down before him with a surprised shout, landing hard on the floor. That was better, Aloyse thought, tangling his hand in Prothade's hair and wrenching his head back, exposing the long column of his throat. He wrapped his hand around it and squeezed as hard as he could, cutting off Prothade's voice with a surprised gasp, his hands flying up to try and claw at Aloyse's hand, but Aloyse couldn't even feel the ragged scrape of his nails. The euphoria of this being __right__ was overwhelming, even as Prothade squirmed and fought for breath below him, his back pressed up against Aloyse's thigh. 

"You can lie to yourself all you want," he said, the words tearing up out of him. "But I don't see how you've won anything." He shook Prothade, just a little bit, ignoring his pained wheeze, then released him. Prothade doubled forward, gasping for breath, but Aloyse pulled him back again, his free hand roving over Prothade's body, touching each bruise in turn. Each produced a different noise; a slow moan, a hiss of pain, a strangled yelp. Prothade could say whatever he wanted, try to fool Aloyse with poisoned words, but his body didn't — couldn't lie to him. 

He put Prothade down on the floor. He landed hard on his back. Aloyse watched the roll of pain flood over his body as he pressed his knee into Prothade's thigh, right on the muscle, and leaned his whole weight on it. Prothade’s cock was standing hard against his belly now, and every time Aloyse pinched at his skin, twisted at it, it got harder, until Prothade pushed his hips up, precome wet on the head of his cock. It was like Aloyse was touching him directly there, and Prothade was desperate for it. 

It wasn't enough. Aloyse looked down at the blindfold, and furrowed his brow, pushing his teeth into his bottom lip. He could be imagining anyone. He could be imagining Manet touching him. Prothade had noticed that he had stopped and was trembling in anticipation, waiting for the next pinch. Aloyse pulled the blindfold down instead, exposing Prothade's eyes, and he blinked upwards, almost unseeing, until they cleared and he focused on Aloyse's face. __Now__ it was right, with the light reflected in the brown of Prothade's eyes, close enough to see himself. They were the same colour as his own, he realised, with a soft jolt. He would give Prothade what he wanted, but he had to know it was from Aloyse, delivered from his own hand. 

"No," Prothade hissed, voice low. "You can't — "

"You can't imagine anyone but me," Aloyse said, swooping down until their faces were very close. "You have to know it's me," he said, dipping his gaze further down to Prothade's lips, which were red and raw. He moved further, slowly, until he could feel the frantic puff of Prothade's breath against his own lips, looking up to lock eyes with him. 

Then Prothade started to fight for real, struggling underneath him with wild, undisciplined movements. He hit Aloyse in the side of the head, so Aloyse reared back and slapped him across the face, making his eyes tear. Prothade didn't stop, kicking out until Aloyse had to pin him properly against the wood floor. Prothade struggled underneath him until he was half turned over, dragging his hands across the floor, trying to pull himself away. Nothing Aloyse did calmed him, quieted him, until he seized upon the thin switch of pine Prothade had brought in with him and wildly lashed it across Prothade's back, stark red lines appearing one after the other. The smell of pine sap filled the air, each lash with the snow-damp switch eliciting a moan from Prothade's mouth against the floor that sounded like Aloyse was fucking him, drawn deep from inside his body, completely unhindered. His back was a criss-cross of lines, Aloyse panting with exertion. 

The switch felt hot in his hand. He leaned down and turned Prothade back over, pressing his back hard into the ground. Now Prothade was unresisting, so he leaned down and kissed his lax mouth, pushing his tongue deep into Prothade's mouth, holding his head to find the right angle, his chapped lips catching on Prothade's. After a second, Prothade started responding, his eyes opening lazily, pushing his tongue insistently against Aloyse's, the wet stroke making his hips kick against Prothade's thigh, grinding his cock down. But Prothade was growing restless again, his hands curled against Aloyse's chest and trying to push him off. It was at the point where it seemed like Prothade __needed__ to be hit. Aloyse had reshaped his own body according to the urge to hurt him; why shouldn't he shape Prothade's too?

He picked Prothade up and dragged him to the bed, Prothade struggling weakly. The bag he had thrown to Aloyse was on the table, so he left Prothade and opened it. A vial of oil, soft rope with some heft to it, a riding crop, and another knife, a little wicked thing safely sheathed. Below all that, wrapped in a cloth, was a stone phallus. Prothade gasped as Aloyse unearthed it. 

He lined up each item on the table, leaving the phallus last, turning it over gently. "Is this what you use on yourself?" Prothade was nodding, slowly, eyes cast down to the floor. "If you think of me, I'm afraid it's misguided," Aloyse said. "My cock is much bigger than this." Prothade's breath caught in his throat and he turned away. "Look at me," Aloyse said. Prothade raised his head, cheeks damp with tears and spit. "Nothing to say now?"

"You're disgusting," Prothade said, leaning back onto the bed like he no longer had the strength to sit up. It put his body on display in a way that forced Aloyse to look at it, the long lines of his legs, his hips, the breadth of his chest, and most of all his cock, which was painfully hard and red against his stomach. "I'm your __brother__." His voice wobbled and Aloyse saw him shift his hips, uncomfortable, but as he watched, Prothade arched his back and his cock spilled another rush of precome onto his stomach. 

It was like being hit in the stomach, arousal spiking down into his legs. He wobbled for a moment, then shoved himself to Prothade, who looked like he was stuck in a crux between staying and trying to get away again, legs moving nervously against the bed. "I know," Aloyse said, and stripped off his clothes. Prothade's gaze felt physical against his body, tracing the muscles in his chest, before dropping to his cock. Prothade's swallow was audible. 

It didn't matter what Prothade wanted. His body was a thing to be shaped for Aloyse's desires. Aloyse bent his head and bit Prothade's chest, tongue sliding over his nipple, and Prothade started to fight again, slaps battering Aloyse's head. He didn't mind; they felt like nothing, a pulled punch. He was too attentive on his task, his mind tuned towards Prothade's body, worrying at his nipples with his teeth until they looked red and sore, licking at the precome on his stomach until it was wet only with Aloyse's spit. Ignoring Prothade's cock, he lightly grasped his balls. Prothade moaned, his legs falling open, before he jolted with memory and tried to close them again. Aloyse ignored him and gave his balls a firm squeeze, relishing the high, pained gasp that Prothade made, how he went desperately still as Aloyse squeezed them again, giving a gentle tug, before releasing them all together.

He grabbed Prothade's hips and flipped him over, effortlessly, ignoring his gasp of protest. The lines on his back were lurid and Aloyse raked his nails down over them just to see what would happen. Prothade shrieked but he leaned back into it, arching his back as if to say __stop teasing me__. 

With Prothade face down, Aloyse didn't want him to forget who was behind him, so he leaned forward, pressing his bare cock up against Prothade's ass. Prothade was just a thing made to react to Aloyse's body, and Aloyse grabbed his hips, squeezing hard enough to bring bruises to the surface. "Do the others know you think of me?" he said, feeling Prothade shudder underneath him at the sound of his voice. "You'd have to keep quiet at night in the camp," he said, and pushed his fingers between Prothade's thighs, running them up, right across his hole. Prothade yelped and lurched forward, but Aloyse followed the movement, rubbing his fingers across his hole, calluses catching on the rim. Prothade was sobbing, hips pushing back with every moment. "I doubt you can keep quiet with that thing in you," Aloyse said, rolling his fingers back and forth. "It's not very true to life," he continued. "I'm much bigger." He glanced up to see if he had hit the target, and Prothade's head was rolled back, his mouth open and wet like he was imagining it — __remembering__ the weight of Aloyse's cock in his mouth, the stretch at the corners of his mouth as he struggled to slide it down his throat.

He pressed in a little, dry, and dragged a noise out of Prothade that didn't seem possible, a wail of pain and pleasure intertwined, his voice cracking. Aloyse pulled his fingers back, reluctantly, and returned with oil, wetting his fingers. Not very much — just enough to ease the passage of his first finger into Prothade's hole, which clenched around him immediately. The inside of his body was almost too hot to bear and the stretch had to be painful as Aloyse twisted a second finger in beside the first. Prothade had gone terribly still below him, breaths damp with pain. 

Aloyse couldn't stop himself from talking, words spilling out of his mouth. "I think they'll all look at you now and know what you are," he said, and Prothade shuddered under him. "How could they not see what I see? You'd get on your knees for me in front of everyone, I think, if I made you. You might have been born first, but you were made for __me__."

He pulled his fingers out, too quick, and lined his cock up instead, nudging the head against Prothade's hole, just letting him feel the girth of his cock, pressing in without stopping. Prothade was shaking with pain, but when Aloyse reached under him and took his cock in hand, that was when Prothade started resisting again, as much as he could, trying to push Aloyse's hand away with a weak grip. 

"You can still pretend to be a prince or a chevalier, but everyone will know you're mine."He licked Prothade's earlobe, followed his whims across to his cheek, tasted the salt of his tears. Aloyse's mind was alive with possibilities as he buried himself to the hilt inside his brother, each image flicking past faster and faster. Prothade on his knees at the court table, hidden by the drape of cloth, holding Aloyse's cock in his mouth. Prothade tied to his bed, day after night, while Aloyse ignored him, denied him his relief, until he would debase himself just for a sliver of attention. Prothade naked across Aloyse's lap as he smacked him with the flat of his own sword, begging and thrusting into Aloyse's thigh. 

His own thrusts were wild and uncontrolled, pulling out almost to the tip and counting the seconds before pushing in again, into that heat that was destroying his mind, destroying his ability to think. It was difficult to reconcile that he had once looked up to his brother, hanging on his every word, running to fetch things, thinking of him as an idol rather than the body underneath him that was begging for his cock, begging for him to slow down, to speed up, to not go so deep. His cock was dragging against Prothade’s prostate with every thrust, hard and slow, then fast. 

"I made you like this," Prothade gasped underneath him, his voice thick with tears. Aloyse touched his cock again, and this time Prothade gasped as his fingers closed tight around it, sliding slowly up and down, a gentle counterpart to each rough thrust. His voice hiccuped with tears as Aloyse's hand closed tighter and tighter. Prothade squeezed around Aloyse's cock and pushed back against him, meeting his thrusts. Beneath the pain, his voice was sure. "I am the only one who knows you." It was true, and it settled over him with weight, but Prothade didn't speak it as a triumph, but almost like a defeat, his voice weary. Aloyse could taste the bitterness in his voice and wanted to soothe it the way that Prothade would want to be soothed. 

Aloyse fit his teeth over the bite on the back of Prothade's neck and clamped down until he tasted blood, and Prothade was bucking underneath him, spilling over Aloyse's hand. He licked the blood carefully, slowly, from Prothade's neck and began to work his hips again, grinding slow and surely towards his own climax. "You're afraid of me," he breathed into the back of Prothade's neck, tongue seeking the blood welling against each mark from his teeth.

"Yes," Prothade said, and there was the weight of years under his statement, his voice too clear to be denied. Aloyse had let him suffer alone for too long; it was time to share the burden, show Prothade how things could be. Aloyse started stroking his cock again. Prothade was too exhausted to resist, unable to move underneath Aloyse's weight, and just let him do as he pleased, until it was too much and Aloyse could no longer hold back, as much as he wanted to do this for hours, coaxing Prothade back to hardness and making him come and again and again until he couldn't even lift his head from the bed, without even the strength to break Aloyse's gaze. 

Then he was coming, spilling himself into Prothade, whose eyes went wide at the sensation. The pleasure was overwhelming, and he lost his breath, gasping like he'd been mortally struck, grabbing Prothade's hips to keep him still, but also to lay a fresh set of bruises across his skin. 

It took him time to work himself out of Prothade's body, teetering on the edge to push back in, remain there until he was hard again, follow a never-ending urge until his come was spilling out of his body, unable to be contained. But he was exhausted too, waves of tiredness washing over him. He pulled Prothade close to him, arranging his limbs so that Aloyse could trap him close, pulling him against his chest. Prothade moaned in protest, but he was too far gone to resist, to stop Aloyse from kissing his neck, his tongue roving over to Prothade's mouth, tasting the blood on his lips from biting them. His arms were slack and tired against Aloyse's chest, finally surrendering and lying lax against Aloyse, leaning into his warmth. 

Aloyse didn't sleep for a long time, just running his hands over the welts on Prothade's back and imagining the morning, when Prothade would be distant, his schooled face blank. It would last about as long as Aloyse could hold out, but it would be easy to get him on his knees again, remind him with a firm hand. __Just once?__ He already had plans for hundreds of times.

 

Prothade was pretending nothing had happened again. The chevaliers were sprawled across three tables in the grand hall, Prothade holding court with tales and jokes. None of them had noticed Aloyse come into the hall, but that was to be expected. Perhaps they had noticed that Prothade had taken pains to leave the seat next to him free, but the only one to look up when Aloyse settled in it was Manet, who curled his lip but didn't meet Aloyse's eye, a faint flush colouring his cheeks. 

Prothade was telling some story about hunting, and although he didn't turn or acknowledge Aloyse, his words became faster, story beginning to wander. Aloyse thought he might edge his chair away, but he didn't, sitting stock still and turned away. Aloyse grew tired of listening and reached under the tablecloth, putting his hand high on Prothade's thigh, high enough for the backs of his fingers to brush at the side of Prothade's cock, and Prothade jumped, rattling the table hard enough to send all the water goblets dancing on their rims. 

"What's wrong?" Ivin said, flicking droplets from his sleeve.

"It's nothing," Aloyse said, rubbing a hot circle against the side of Prothade's thigh, fingers creeping closer and closer to his cock. Prothade had gone pale, straining with the effort not to look down at Aloyse's arm. "Go on, Prothade." 


End file.
